


deus vult

by hhaeyeun



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, DreamTeam, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Sleepyboisinc - Freeform, based off of Greek mythology, there’s more characters but they’re not in the story yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhaeyeun/pseuds/hhaeyeun
Summary: He still lurks in his mind, the man with wings. The sight of his skull pin gleaming in the scarlet light, the sound of his voice calling him his son. However, life carries on, and the marvelous fantasies are pushed to the deepest crevices of his subconscious.But he’s there.And he’s there to stay.(Mainly focused on SBI, a Gods/Goddesses AU. Explores family dynamics and a lil’ sprinkle of action.)
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Philza & TommyInnit, Tubbo & Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 78
Kudos: 802





	1. prologue.

A boy finds himself in a sea of red and orange.

It’s a horrifyingly beautiful sight, his young mind thinks, as he takes in the view; scarlet mountains stained glowing yellow and marble white can just barely be seen in the distance, and thin clouds of black smoke waft through the air.

It’s a vision that demands one’s breath, too wondrous yet terrifying to behold with mortal eyes. An impossible plane, a heavenly hell.

But there the boy stands, staring. 

The wisps of dark clouds gather together, forming a senseless shape; it starts at the feet, then legs, then a torso, until a man emerges out of the smoky mist, with a pair of the most beautiful wings the boy’s ever seen in his life.

And the man himself, face shrouded in shadow, comes only second to those wings. He is a being so dangerous, yet calming. An eye of a storm. A sight too beautiful to withstand.

Any other mortal may crumble to dust at the mere sight. But the boy-- such a young little thing-- opens his mouth and cuts through the smoke-filled air with a question.

“Who are you?”

Only the quiet sound of those incredible wings answer him.

The boy tilts his head, so innocently curious. “Are you an angel?”

“...No.”

And even his voice is brilliant, the boy thinks vaguely; so rich, so earth-quaking. Even if his young mind can’t comprehend such a description, he can feel it from the depths of his heart: this man, angel, he is special. He is stunning.

“Are you sure?” the boy manages to ask, tentatively reaching out for those beautiful, beautiful wings. “You have... wings.”

A most foolish decision. But luck smiles on him today, for his hand phases through the feathers completely. He gapes at it, waving his hand uselessly through them.

Finally, the angel speaks. “A soul...?” He shifts, and the wings phase through the boy’s hands one last time before pulling away. “...No. He has a heart.”

The boy can just barely make out one thing in those waves of black on black; a sparkle of silver, peeking out on top of his robes. A screaming skull.

“Either way,” the angel raises a bejeweled hand, “now is not the time.”

Black is the last thing the boy can see; the black of his wings, the black of his faceless head, the black of his robes.

The black of his vision as he returns to his pure slumber.

<>

The boy returns again, barely older and much braver.

It’s just the same as he remembers it: an eerie ruby sky, painted with streaks of black and gold. The plains, stretching out to an infinity of maroon and char. 

And just like before, the clouds of smoke whip together to bring nothingness into somethingness. The boy notices the wings first. Shiny, glossy, and— for a lack of a better word—  _ beautiful. _

“I’m back,” the child tells him bluntly, fearlessly.

“So I see,” the angel replies. His voice is velvety, intimidatingly gorgeous.

“Can I touch them, mister?” he wills himself to say bravely. “Your wings.”

This time, the angel touches the ground, and his wings fold into themselves neatly. The child barely blinks, refusing to let himself miss even a second of that godly sight.

“Child,” the angel says, “you are far too young.”

“I’m not,” he retorts, “I’m six.”

He thinks he sees the angel smile. “Six.”

“Yeah, six.” He crosses his arms. “Four away from ten.”

“Four whole years?”

“Mmmhm.”

Now he  _ knows _ he sees the angel smile. “Impressive. What is your name?”

He scowls. “What’s  _ yours?” _ He falls quiet when only silence greets him, then turns to the side to pout. “Tommy.”

“Tommy,” The angel says it slowly, like he’s tasting the word. “Tommy.”

Tommy points at him, still so infuriatingly, unmistakably brave. “Your turn.”

The angel reaches over instead of giving an answer; reaching and reaching, until his fingers are a breath away from the child’s. And, with a resolved step, he touches their hands together, only for his hand to phase through Tommy’s once again.

“Not a soul.” The angel passes his hands through Tommy’s once more. “Yet not alive.”

“I’m alive,” Tommy says indignantly.

And with a smile and a head shake, the man reaches again, finger pointing at Tommy’s temple. “I know.”

Six-year-old Tommy opens his mouth to retort, only to see that familiar black consuming his vision once more. 

<>

This time, he doesn’t wait for the smoke to even form before speaking: “I’m ten now.”

Again, the wings catch his eyes first. He’s older now, and even audacious than before, so he wastes zero hesitation in reaching out to try and grab those ebony plumes; but as the last two times, it’s to no avail. His hands pass through like a knife cutting through air.

“Why do they fascinate you so?” the angel asks.

“‘Cause I don’t have them,” Tommy says. “I want them.”

The angel laughs. Like everything else about him, it’s pleasing the senses; rich, happy, yet light. It makes Tommy’s spine buzz-- with excitement or fear, he can’t tell. “I had my doubts, young one.” The angel flutters his wings before settling to the ground. “But I know now that you must be mortal-- partly mortal, at least.”

“Why?” Excitement bleeds into his voice. “Maybe I’m an angel like you are.”

“You  _ are _ like me,” the angel says. “But I’m not an angel. Far from it.”

Fruitlessly, Tommy tries to grasp for his wings again. “But you have wings.”

“I do. I do have wings.”

“Then you must be an angel.”

The angel-- not angel?-- laughs once more. “I am something far greater than an angel, my son.”

_ My son. _ The words wash over him, waves upon waves, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It’s pleasant. “How do I know you’re not just a weird dream?” Tommy says instead. 

“A dream.” The not-angel muses. “Dreams... that is plausible.”

The feeling begins to ebb away. Tommy wishes he can hold onto it for longer. “You’re so weird.” He crosses his arms. “You speak all funny, too.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He puts his hands on his hips and straightens up, imitating the man-creature.  _ “Dreams... that is plausible. _ Even my schoolteacher doesn’t use that sort of language, and she’s older than my mum.”

“Is she now?”

Tommy points at him again, incredulous. “You’re doing it again!”

He earns himself a third laugh from him as the man-creature breaks into a wide smile. “To be fair, I can guarantee that I’m  _ much _ older than your schoolteacher.”

“Yeah, well.” Tommy digs his foot into the ground and kicks up dust. “Adults are adults, aren’t they.”

“I suppose we are.” He tilts his head. “Would you like me to practice speaking, then? Normally?”

“...You don’t  _ have _ to,” Tommy mumbles, suddenly sorry.

“I want to.”

“Then do it, I guess.” Tommy feels a chill run up his spine. “Aren’t you gonna,” he gestures with his hands, “send me back, now?”

The man-creature bows his head down. Tommy imagines he’s looking at his feet. “I suppose I should.”

He moves closer to Tommy, palm near his head; Tommy blurts out, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The man-creature stops. “How are you certain?”

“I dunno, I just,” he shrugs a shoulder, “know.”

“You just know,” the other repeats quietly, before nodding. “Yes... in that case. I will see you tomorrow.”

“...See you,” Tommy says.

And his world goes black once again.

<>

Tommy sees him tomorrow. They talk a little bit more; Tommy asks for his name. He’s told,  _ not yet. _

Tommy sees him the day after tomorrow. Tommy asks him if it’s been ‘yet’. He earns a chuckle and a head shake, he sees the slightest glimpse of his eyes. They’re green, he thinks. But he’s told again,  _ I’m afraid not. _

And so it repeats for the next week, the next month, the next year. The next two years. Three.

Until one day, Tommy goes to bed and dreams of something other than the beauteous man in his beauteous world with his beauteous wings. And at fourteen years old, Tommy convinces himself bitterly that those wondrous, magnificent dreams were born of nothing short of a child’s wild imagination, and that he’s now grown far too old for this silliness. 

After a month, he manages to quench his mourning. And after half a year, he manages to forget about the dreams entirely.

He still lurks in his mind, the man with wings. The sight of his skull pin gleaming in the scarlet light, the sound of his voice calling him his son. However, life carries on, and the marvelous fantasies are pushed to the deepest crevices of his subconscious.

But he’s there.

And he’s there to stay.


	2. i.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw // graphic blood description

_ he feels the screeching, first. _

_ he doesn’t hear it, he feels it. it reverberates beneath his feet and bleeds through his ears, wrapping its high-pitched shrieks around tommy’s throat and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, until tommy feels like screaming himself. _

_ choking it back, he looks around; a scarlet sky, a golden sheen. wisps of black smoke.  _

_ it’s familiar, all too familiar. tommy, sixteen years old, is back in this horrifying paradise. _

_ and so he swallows his discomfort and sticks his fingers in his ears, and waits for the man made of smoke to appear. _

_ true to his memory, the smoke begins to whip together into a familiar shape. ears ringing, tommy doesn’t bother to wait for him to fully form: “stop it!” _

_ maybe it’s just his imagination, but the smoke seems to take longer than usual; perhaps he’s just remembering it wrong? still, no response is elicited, and tommy shouts again. “the screaming! tell ‘em to quit!” _

_ the man does not speak. _

_ tommy flings his hands out in front of him in frustration. “have you gone deaf, you winged-- i said, stop that horrible noise!” _

_ “it’s time.” his voice is deep. deeper than tommy remembers. it cuts through the air like a knife through butter, a pleasant welcome to his ears amidst the screams. “you are ready.” _

_ “no shit i’m ready,” tommy retorts, “ready to murder you if you don’t stop that fucking--” _

_ “you will see him soon.” _

_ “see  _ who _ soon, you--! i swear, you’ve gotten even worse with your stupid language than before, you old hat--” the screeches double in volume, cutting tommy off mid-sentence and forcing him to shove his fingers back into his ears.  _

_ “beware.” tommy hears him speak-- or rather, he feels his voice echoing inside his head. calming. dangerous. “beware of the ones seeking you.” _

_ “stop spouting your idiotic riddles and  _ tell me--”

_ but tommy’s cut off once more. not by the incessant screaming, nor by the smoky man, but by himself, as he quiets at the sight presented in front of him. the smoke’s clearing, revealing a man’s body and a familiar pair of wings, but-- this isn’t how he remembered it--? _

_ deep purple wings fluttering, the man-- the  _ different _ man-- speaks. velvety, rich, cool. “he wishes he could warn you himself.” he raises his head, and tommy bites back a noise of surprise: half his face is pure bone. a mess of black curls fall into his eyes, his redder-than-red eyes, and that mouth opens to speak again. “he sends his apologies.” _

_ tommy swallows. “who’s-- ‘he’?” _

_ but he gets no answer, as the screaming abruptly stops; tommy looks around, bewildered. but at the touch of a cool finger to his forehead-- he’s touching him?-- tommy whips his head to stare at the man with the half-skull.  _

_ “trust yourself. do not hesitate.”  _

_ and tommy’s vision begins to blur into itself, shifting and distorting, until he sees nothing but black. _

<>

Tommy turns sixteen. 

He does many things at sixteen. He begins college, learns how to talk to girls. Gets to go out past midnight with friends. Receives just a little more pocket money than before.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees strange things: a woman with half her face sagging; a spider’s hiss escaping a man’s mouth. An odd  _ vwoop _ -ing sound unlike anything he’s heard before. 

But Tommy’s used to the unnatural by now, and he proceeds to do what he does best: put it out of his mind. They join his subconscious, along with the winged man and the hell-like heaven. The strange warnings of the man with half a skull for a face.

Tommy turns sixteen, and tries to live like he’s sixteen.

<>

“Tubbo, have you ever been given a really cryptic warning?”

It’s a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, not a cloud in sight; a rare blue sky, painting the two boys’ cheeks with warmth. The creak of the playground swings come to a stop as Tommy’s friend peers up at him. “Define ‘cryptic’.”

Tommy, ever-so-impatient, gives him his signature scowl. “You know what cryptic means.”

“I do, I do,” Tubbo hums. “But there’s different kinds of cryptic, y’know.”

“Different kinds?”

“Yeah. Like, there’s a ‘your mum’s found a pile of dishes behind your closet’ kind of cryptid,” Tubbo explains, “and then there’s a ‘the priest at the local church is about to excommunicate you’ kind of cryptid. Different kinds, yeah?”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “What is ‘excommunicate’?”

“No clue, big man.”

“You’re useless,” Tommy tells him, eliciting a laugh. 

Tubbo begins swinging again, and the low groan of the chains fill the air.  _ Creak. Creak. _ “What’s brought this on, anyway?”

Now Tommy’s the one to come to a stop. He crosses his feet, deliberating. Thinking. “Nothin’.”

Tubbo passes him as the swing reaches into the sky. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, you know that,” he says, as Tommy grumbles a ‘shut up’. “You can tell me whatever. I won’t judge, swear it.”

“...Swear it?”

Tubbo passes him again, and Tommy can just make out his hand letting go of the swing to cross at his heart, the madman. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Tommy sighs, irritated but fond. 

“...Been having weird dreams.” He kicks at the ground. “Well,  _ no, _ they’ve stopped, but-- argh. Thing is, I’ve been having weird dreams-- dumb ones, really-- since I was little. They’ve stopped now, though.”

“Mhm.”

“But all of a sudden, I dreamt the same thing again yesterday.” Tommy frowns. “But it was a whole more-- I dunno, unnatural?”

“Cryptic,” Tubbo offers.

“Cryptic.” Tommy nods, and closes his eyes. “I know it’s just a dumb dream, but I’ve got a hell of a strange feeling about it.”

Tubbo’s quiet. The swing comes to a stop. “...What was the dream about?”

“...Like, angels n’ shit.”

Tubbo laughs; it’s a light sound, filling the now-oddly tense air. “Angels n’ shit? You sure you’re not going mad, Tommy?”

Playfully, Tommy kicks up asphalt in his direction. “Shut it.” But his laughter is contagious, so Tommy can’t help but laugh too.

Calming down, Tubbo nods. “Okay, so you dreamt of angels n’ shit. But yesterday, it was weirder than usual.” Tommy nods to agree. “And you think it’s a warning of some sort?” Hesitantly, Tommy nods again.

If Tommy looks at him hard enough, he thinks that Tubbo’s making a strange face. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he seems to be concentrating hard on something. His knuckles are white against the clean steel of the swing chains. But he passes it off as him being delusional: Tubbo’s always been one to make weird faces.

“I think,” Tubbo begins. 

“Yeah?” 

“I think,” Tubbo breaks out into an impish smile, “you need to see a doctor, big man.”

Tommy lets out the breath he’s been holding with a loud  _ pff, _ launching himself out of the swing; Tubbo runs out of the area with a hooting laugh, and Tommy chases after him good-naturedly. “Get back here, you little--!”

And so they run around and laugh, as teenage boys do. Normal, unvexed, and free.

<>

_ tommy’s been counting the days; it’s been exactly two weeks since the last dream. but tommy is two weeks older than he was before, and he comes with a plan and a resolve. _

_ “right,” tommy says, jacket sleeves tied around his head to block out the noise, “i’m not taking shit from you no mo’.” _

_ he’s speaking to nothing, but he knows it’s there- the man in smoke. the  _ men _ in smoke. _

_ “first, tell whoever’s yelling to quit it.” tommy gestures toward the distance. “it’s hurting my ears, man. second, i’m not leaving without knowing exactly what you weird folks want to warn me about.” _

_ he can see the smoke faintly begin to form together. “third.” he says, raising a foot and putting it back on the ground forcefully. “tell me how to stop these idiotic dreams.” _

_ like yesterday, the smoke speaks to him before the man’s fully formed. “this isn’t a dream.” _

_ “damn straight it’s a dream,” tommy retorts, stomping forward. “that other fella with the black wings told me it was.” _

_ “things change.” _

_ “‘things change,’” tommy mimics, dropping his voice to the deepest decibels he can muster before scowling. “i’ve been having these since i was a kid, i’ll have you know, and i’d really like ‘em to stop--” _

_ and like yesterday, the screaming gets louder. “--and for that ridiculous screeching to SHUT UP,” he bellows. “Shut it, you useless, hollering piece of shit--!” _

_ “it seems that he might have been mistaken.” true to tommy’s suspicions, the man with purple wings emerges from the smoke, half-skull face and all. “your temperament is a far cry from the lord’s.” _

_ “mistaken about  _ what,” _ tommy snarls. “i’m sick of your dumb riddles, so tell me straight. what is this place, who and where is that man with the black wings, and why am i having these dreams again?” _

_ “this isn’t a dream,” the other repeats. frustrated, tommy launches himself at him, fist raised. “how many times do i need to repeat myself before you get it through your stupid skull--!” _

_ but tommy flinches back with a shout, for his hand turns blackened and charred; it doesn’t pass through the purple-winged not-angel’s body like he’d expected, and instead is met with a shocking, painful electricity. he howls, cradling his hand with his other. _

_ “you are ready,” the not-angel informs him through his cries. “your pain proves it.” _

_ “what the fuck,” tommy seethes. _

_ “soon.” he steps forward, and tommy takes a step back. “beware, son of Phil.”  _

_ tommy doesn’t get to respond, for his world goes black once more. _

<>

“I think you’re right,” Tommy informs Tubbo the next day. “I should see a doctor. I’m going mad.”

Tubbo, mouth full of sandwiches, only blinks at him curiously. “Whaf aw ywou tawkin’ avou’,” he says. 

Tommy makes a face. “Gross, man.”

Finally swallowing, Tubbo wipes at his mouth. “What are you talking about?” he says again, eyebrows raised.

Tommy crosses his arms. “I’m gonna see a doctor. Or a therapist. Or a-- I don’t know, a shaman. I’m sick of it.” 

“Sick of what? The dreams?” Tubbo takes a smaller bite of his sandwich. “Maybe you should try lucid dreaming.”

“The hell is that?”

“Y’know, lucid dreaming. Controlling your dreams.” Tubbo waves a hand. “If you’re having nightmares, you can will it to go away. I’ve heard there’s some nasty consequences for it if you don’t do it right, though.”

“That’s a thing?” Tommy says incredulously. Tubbo nods. “Yeah. I’ve tried it once or twice myself; it only works half the time for me, though.”

“Well, don’t leave me hanging, tell me how to do it, man.”

Tubbo sets his sandwich down. “It’s pretty easy. All you gotta do is follow exactly as I say. First, take out your phone.”

Tommy takes out his phone.

“Next, open Google.”

Tommy opens Google.

“Finally, type this in the search bar: ‘how to stop being gullible’.”

Tommy’s halfway through when he realizes, and he nearly flings his phone at Tubbo hooting laughter.. “Don’t be an ass,” he snaps, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I’m being serious here.”

“Ooh, serious?” The smile’s wiped from Tubbo’s face. “It’s that bad?”

Tommy crosses his arms. “It’s serious,” he says, frowning. “I really want these dumb dreams to stop.”

Tubbo seems to consider it. “Well, I wasn’t messing around with the lucid dreaming part. You can try to control your dreams...” he trails off. “...Wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s just,” Tubbo imitates Tommy, crossing his arms; his sandwich lays on the bench, forgotten. “...Well, this is about your weird cryptic dreams, isn’t it?” Tommy nods. “What if it’s, you know,” Tubbo says carefully, “an actual sign? Or something?”

Tommy gapes. “I’m thinking you should go to the shaman with me.”

This time, Tubbo’s the one to lightly hit him on the arm. “Aw, shut up, man. I’m trying to be on your side, here.”

“By convincing me that I’m actually going mad?” 

“The supernatural could exist, you know,” Tubbo crosses his legs. “You’ve never believed in ghosts or anything?”

“Ghosts aren’t real. And even if they are, they’d never come close to me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you smell.”

_ “No,” _ Tommy grounds, as Tubbo breaks out into giggles once more. 

“Have you tried, like, deciphering what the man tells you?” Tubbo suggests. “Like, what he actually means ‘n stuff?”

“No, why would I? It’s just a stupid--” Tommy stops abruptly. “How’d you know about the man?”

“Huh? You told me about it.”

“No. No, I didn’t.” Tommy looks over at him. “I didn’t. I just told you that the dreams were weird. Angels and shit.”

“Yeah, and then you said that there was a man there with you.” Tubbo smiles; Tommy sees it’s strained. Panicked? “Are you sure you’re okay, Tommy?”

“What? No,” Tommy emphasizes, standing up. “No, I know I never told you about the man. I  _ never _ told anyone about the man.”

“Yes you did,” Tubbo’s smile is cracking. Tommy can see it; his eyes, green with alarm. “The man with the wings. You said he was an angel.”

“I didn’t.” Tommy takes a step back. “I didn’t. I know I didn’t.”

“You--” Tubbo cuts himself short, eyebrows furrowing. “Tommy.”

“How did you know--”

“Tommy, no, listen--”

Tommy shakes his head, heartbeat racing. “No,  _ you _ listen, don’t you try and lie to me--”

“Tommy, look behind you--!”

“What?” Tommy manages to say, and cranes his head to do as Tubbo says--

\--Only for a pair of jaws, stronger than steel and blacker than angel wings, to snap him up within and crush him in two; blood spurts from his arms, his stomach, and if Tommy could see properly, he’d see that his blood, normally scarlet red, has taken on a golden sheen. 

It’s a beautiful day to die. The rarest cerulean sky, stained with spots of golden red.

They say that your senses grow sharper near death-- or at least, Tommy’s heard it before, probably from Tubbo. Tubbo, his friend, Tubbo, his-- oh, Tubbo. Surely he’ll be snatched up too? 

He cranes his head to the side, blood obscuring his vision, to try and see if his dearest friend has also been fed to the hands of death, but he sees nothing, what a relief. Run, he wants to scream. Get away.

But blood only chokes his throat as he coughs it out in spurts, flying out from his mouth to paint the gray concrete of the park with splatters of ruby-scarlet. Tubbo, Tubbo.

Tubbo. He’s screaming.

  
_ “--mea nomine, tibi impero!” _ is all Tommy can make out; a flash of golden light, and a scorching heat burning wounds, his body, is all he feels before his vision blurs to an ever-familiar, ever-loving black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo that was a doozy
> 
> I also only got this beta-read once, so there's a good chance this isn't as good as the prologue,, it might also be moving far too fast, but I've never been the type to drag things out. Tommy has weird dreams, he's sixteen, his friend Tubbo spouts a sentence from a dead language, and he's snapped in two by a creature he's never seen. Pog!
> 
> I also speedwrote this in like, there hours,, there's no doubt a few mistakes here and there but I just really wanted to finish this quickly. Now we can have some real action.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments make my day + really motivate me to write more, so be a love and leave smth nice for me to read :] thank you @driemyi on twitter for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> \+ reminder to follow my twitter if you wanna see my art of this au! 
> 
> Much love, Jo

**Author's Note:**

> That’s the prologue finished!  
> I’ve been working on this au for a few days now, but I’m real happy with how the prologue came out <3 even if I did speedwrite this in two hours. 
> 
> Also very important note: While the gods’ designs and abilities are derived off of ancient Greek mythology, they are not to be confused with the actual gods of the myths themselves! I’ve been informed that replacing or using their names in such a way is disrespectful to polytheistic religions; whether this is true or not I’m not sure, but I’d rather not take the risk.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you want art of this + snippets of comics of this au follow my twitter, @hhaeyeun.
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers @__cchamporado, @luverraie, @miths_d, @LoveCemo, @driemyi, @little_cures, and @BrisingrW0lf.
> 
> Look out for chapter one soon. 
> 
> Much love, Jo


End file.
